


Fool's Luck

by msermesth



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Ultimates
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Chitauri - Freeform, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Tony is Not Okay, Unhappy Ending, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-28 01:50:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15038057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msermesth/pseuds/msermesth
Summary: Steve arrives on his doorstep exactly three hours and twenty-seven minutes after Tony finishes the last word of his eulogy.





	Fool's Luck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ironlawyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ironlawyer/gifts).



> MIND THE TAGS. _PLEASE._
> 
> Set after Cataclysm.
> 
> Happy Birthday, Ironlawyer! I knew I could never do Skrulls as well as you, so I tried the next best thing.

Steve arrives on his doorstep exactly three hours and twenty-seven minutes after Tony finishes the last word of his eulogy.

If you could call pouring straight gin into a martini glass ‘mixing’, than Tony’s _mixing_ a drink when he hears the heavy knock on the door. He's making up for every sip he hasn't been able to take since Galactus as he tosses back as much as he can fit into his mouth. He even pours some more to tide himself over as he stumbles to the couch and eyes a cheese board the new Jarvis must have set out. Not that he’ll touch it. Food will just get in the way of what he's trying to do.

Tony doesn’t just want to be wasted, he wants to be _laid to waste_.

If he’s lucky, he’ll finally find out what’s the other end of the mysterious ‘too much alcohol’ his doctors have always warned him about.

This is about the point Tony’s supposed to dig out his list of phone numbers, and then someone, really anyone, will come over and make sure he’s not alone. They’ll say it like they are there to talk, but what they’ll mean is that they do not trust him to be actually, _physically_ , alone. Tony’s trying not to think too much about the list; Steve’s name is on it and Tony can’t stop imagining the way Steve had said ‘if you need me, any time, please.’

From the way he said it, Tony knew Steve had thought about eating his gun at least once. It was the look on his face that made Tony internally vow that if he ever hit that place again, he’d pick up the phone.

Right now, Tony’s about ready to hurl that phone into the window when he hears a heavy knock on the door. Getting off the couch is its own struggle, getting to the door might as well be walking a tightrope. When he finally makes it and manages not to slip on the smooth marble floor, he discovers it’s Steve on the other side of the threshold.

Tony’s glass breaks against the marble floor and shatters around both of their feet. This is a dream. He just drank too much. Or maybe yet, this is death and someone will find him in a puddle of vomit tomorrow morning.

Steve looks like Tony remembers him. He’s the ideal man distilled to his greatest essence and then extrapolated into human form again; power radiates off his skin. He’s large, strong, handsome, and _untouchable_.

Thought after thought rushes through Tony’s head. _They never found a body. He smells like that night he came over for dinner. If this is a hallucination, maybe he’ll let me fuck him._

Steve gestures like he wants to come in and Tony’s brain, the one that made him a billionaire and an Ultimate, begins to run scenarios. He decides the best option is to pivot so that Steve can step through the broken glass and into his home. “Having a party?” Steve asks. He must smell more than the gin on the floor.

Tony tries to shake off the feeling he’s done something wrong.

“I was just waiting for you to show up,” Tony announces with all the confidence he was faking earlier today. “It’s your day, after all...”

Steve looks around and his eyes pass Tony as if he isn’t worth anything. “Are you expecting anyone else?” he asks, still studying the room.

“Just you, darling.” Tony feels extra aware of everything he says. Does he always sound like this, like he’s barely sincere? 

Tony has no idea what Steve is looking for here, but it’s clearly more interesting than anything Tony has the offer because Steve just walks away from him and toward the mansion’s bar. Instinct makes Tony follow, whether it’s for Steve or for another glass to replace the one that shattered, he isn’t sure. He has to keep his eyes straight. Looking at the floor makes it more clear how likely he is to fall.

“I made a… lovely speech about you earlier,” Tony says once Steve settles against the bar.

“I heard,” Steve grunts. He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t explain how exactly he was there.

“I gave you the perfect entrance and everything.”

Steve finds the cheese board Tony had been avoiding from earlier and he picks up a slice of manchego, closely studying it before putting it in his mouth. At least he finds the cheese more interesting than Tony’s desperation.

Tony watches as Steve eats the rest of what’s left, even using his finger to pick up any crumbs, and then sits down at the couch closest to the bar. He picks out a heavy bottom glass and freely pours Japanese whiskey until it reaches the top. It’s hard to walk the last few steps from the bar and it is with great difficulty that he lowers himself onto the couch next to Steve instead of the floor. Only about a third of the whiskey spills onto his suit.

Steve smiles at him, for the first time in what feels like forever, and Tony gives in and leans into the warmth. Maybe it’s just the alcohol ( _it’s probably just the alcohol_ , his brain confirms), but Steve seems to lean in, too.

“Mmmm… you smell nice,” Tony mumbles into the sleeve of Steve’s uniform. It’s the wrong smell, but Tony can think of a few explanations for that. “Are we dead?” If this is death, Tony is just fine with it.

Steve’s arm winds around his shoulder and he kisses the hair on Tony’s head. A reassurance Tony knows is wrong when he feels it. “No, Tony. This is very, very real.”

The sudden need to vomit overcomes Tony and he’s able to step back just far enough so that only half of what comes up ends up on Steve’s lap. Steve stares at him with shock that turns to anger in his eyes.

Tony doesn’t even try to apologize, because now he knows just what scenario he’s currently living through.

In one short, barely coordinated movement, he picks up the pointed cheese knife sitting on the coffee table in front of them and succeeds in managing an almost-perfect arc. Since Tony only buys the best of the best, these knives are crafted to stay sharp, and this one has no problem cutting through both Steve’s external and internal jugular veins. Tony always had good aim.

Once impact knocks the momentum out of him, Tony falls on the coffee table and it breaks under his weight. Steve stands up and sways over him--he’s huge, a presence even as he bleeds out, and a hint of doubt enters Tony’s brain. He’s seeing stars, his ass hurts, and he still feels nauseated.

He knows Chitauri are nearly invincible and that his simple cut isn’t going to do the job, but it gives him a minute to react. Tony needs every single second, he’s so foggy and slow, his limbs weigh tons, and every so often his eyes slip into double-vision.

The voice in his head won’t stop repeating the same thing-- _stop the invasion_ , just like it repeated _stop Galactus_ , or _stop Greg_ , or _stop Fury’s Avengers,_ the consequences be damned.

The Chitauri wearing Steve’s face brings his hand to his throat and runs it through the copious amount of blood that’s leaking out. He smirks as if a drunk man trying to kill him is hilarious, and it’s that second he takes to do so that Tony needs to finally find the button he’s groping for on the bottom of the broken coffee table. The Iron Man armor comes rushing through the curves of the mansion’s hallways, every millisecond a loss, every breath, a danger.

Instead of enveloping Tony (what would Tony do with it anyway? He can barely see straight,) it covers the Chitauri completely, leaving only the faceplate open. Tony remembers programming for this sort of contingency. Some people seem to think that alcoholics that still drink haven’t yet seen rock bottom, but Tony’s been there before, has explored and mapped and drilled even further down, and always knew he would be there again. When he developed this, it was because he could see a future where his only option was going to be to immobilize his opponent.

The Chitauri is grinning down at him, his blood gushing over the front of the suit, and his eyes wild in what could be fear or what could be hilarity. Tony takes a couple deep breaths to push down the nausea he’s still fighting, and opens his mouth only to hiccup. He tries one more time, finally able to get out, “Protocol Heartburn initiate.”

Tony watches as Steve’s face melts to something more generic and its teeth set into what's certainly pain. The armor is currently becoming a pressure cooker, destroying its occupant from the inside out.

Steve had always said the Chitauri were almost impossible to kill. Tony wasn’t even thinking of that when he designed this protocol--just that he needed another way to kill any opponent as quickly and thoroughly as possible.

It only takes a minute, about fifty more seconds than it would take for a human being, and Tony watches as the look of pain on the Chitauri’s face turns from agonized to something defiant.

“How?” It screeches, its voice hollow and unearthly without its lungs.

“It was your knock,” Tony responds. That’s when the suspicion began, at least. For such a big man, Steve’s knocks, like his footfalls, were always gentle.

The Chitauri laughs. It's empty of blood now, possibly all vital organs by now, and the laughs mostly sounds like the pressure of the suit escaping.

It dies. _Like everything else I’ve touched_ , Tony thinks and there is no victory in any of this. He tries to turn onto his side but he fails, too drunk to do anything beside stare up at the armor with its dead face towering over him.

Tony would follow if he could manage to get himself on his feet. He was the man with an actual expiration date, and yet every other person in his life destined to survive him--Steve, Greg, a fucking Chitauri--is dead.

He closes his eyes and the world swims beneath him. He tries to turn around onto his side, an old instinct, but he can’t manage it in time to stop himself from coughing on his own vomit.

Sirens wail outside, he can hear someone about to push down the door. This was part if the protocol, too. They'll find him before he finishes choking.

He just has that sort of luck.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post](https://msermesth.tumblr.com/post/175218306519/fools-luck)


End file.
